


Those Who Left

by poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 1910, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity about Arthur's illness and recovery, Cabin Husbands!, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epilogue, Idiots in Love, Introspection, John & Arthur Bickering Like The Old Married Couple They Are, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Well as fluffy as I can get my writing, morston secret santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: How the hell d'you enjoy the new life you've made for yourself when you can't even shrug the way your past continually haunts you?Perhaps a man who has cheated death is just the person John needs to teach 'im how to live a little and embrace the present. Lucky for John, it's the same man he shares a home with.Morston Secret Santa gift for nigaki!♥
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Those Who Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nigaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nigaki/gifts).



> Oh, dearest Nigaki, will you ever forgive me for how very late this is? My brain has been a mound of overcooked scrambled eggs in the past couple months, so writing has been an immense effort. Being a perfectionist-to-a-fault, I just couldn’t imagine giving you something that I wasn’t proud of, that I didn’t feel you were owed as a gift. Hence the delay! But I am terribly sorry, and I am very grateful for your patience. I thought I would have more free time when I initially messaged you through anon Ask on tumblr, but that was wishful thinking, turns out. Dziękuję bardzo!! Seriously. Ugh, I feel like such a shit. Well, think of this as a Christmas + New Year’s gift! :P
> 
> Onto the good stuff: I took two of your prompts (snowball fight & pillow talk) and shoved them in a blender with some slice-of-life epilogue domesticity, creating something I hope you’ll enjoy! I suck at writing conventional romantic moments, so I apologise in advance for the wee bit of angstyness that snuck in here and there. It isn’t anything very heavy, so no worries. I just believe sweetness tastes better after something more bitter. I like moving my readers with my words, not hurting them, essentially. This won’t be sad!
> 
> Along with your prompts, this fic was inspired by “Came a Long Way” by Heartless Bastards, because everything I write has to revolve around music in some way, shape, or form, I suppose.
> 
> Na zdrowie!🥂

_Too much reflection_  
_Isn't healthy for me_  
_Present and future_  
_Is where I need to be  
  
_ _But I'm stalling this story  
_ _I'm gonna fill it with glory  
_ _'Cause there's no place to go but up  
_ _And I'm changing my outlook  
_ _'Cause looking inwards  
_ _Isn't always a good place to go  
_ _And I hold my head now  
_ _With a tear in my eye  
_ _'Cause I don't really  
_ _Care no more  
  
_ _Always those little things  
_ _That eat at your soul  
_ _And I'm not gonna  
_ _Worry about them no more_

* * *

There were times—a lot like this one here, where John couldn’t find the words to answer Arthur properly, or quite the way he wanted to answer, with all the right words lined up one after the other, each hitting their mark perfectly. With meaning. John was still a crack shot, but not when it came to aiming true his words. Sayin’ _“sometimes”_ like a dumbass didn’t really carry a whole lot of weight with it. A word gone from his mouth and dissipating almost immediately into the air like a puff of smoke or steam from a breath.

He was a fine idiot.

Arthur was quiet beside him, attention hung upon the ceiling, but seeming to accept John’s one-word answer as good enough, or more likely, assuming it was all John’s intellect could give in serious conversation. 

Was this supposed to be serious conversation? Even all these years on, John could never be so sure if Arthur really thought so little of John’s capacity for common sense or profound thought. Anymore, Arthur spoke to 'im less harshly over it, yet he no longer pressed when John gave succinct replies. Sometimes, it was as if a full conversation of mutual agreement could pass between them with lingering looks alone. John liked that just as well, only this deserved more, he felt.

See, Arthur'd asked John if he ever thought about _old times._ Of course he did, they’d all be worse liars if they said they didn’t. Hell, there were days when they all got to sit down for supper together, when even Jack would bring up somethin’ he remembered. Thankfully they was usually things Jack found funny from camp, nothin’ awful, like his kidnappin' for example—least, that’s what he let John believe. With the ranch hands and cowpunchers that John and Arthur had hired for Beecher’s Hope in the last few years, they found those men, decent as they continually proved to be, a little too shiny to talk around ‘bout what they all deemed a sensitive kind of information from times past. Arthur and John could get to jokin’ with Uncle about something they recalled about an old job gone awry or some kinda nonsense their gang got mixed up in and soon, Abigail would materialise outta nowhere, giving the three of ‘em a pointed, maternal glare, or nod her head towards a window, maybe the front door, implyin' there could be listening ears. Was probably for the best that she was the careful one out of ‘em all. Took a damned long time for John and Arthur to learn carefulness.

“What you thinkin'?” Arthur finally asked, snapping John out of his daydream. “Watch yerself, don't feel like carting your skinny ass out to a doctor on account of you hurtin' that little brain a' yours—overworking rusty gears.”

John cracked a wry grin and scoffed. “Wanna talk about rusted gears? You know I've gotta do double the thinkin' ‘round here since you might not be able to do it so well in your advanced age.”

A scuffle ensued when Arthur gave John’s side a mean pinch. John barked out a pained laugh and put up a sleep-leadened fight of his own until the bed linens were nearly tangled around them like spider’s silk. They took it as an excuse—as they did with many a thing—to kiss, close and intimate, teeth knocking here and there, only breaking for smiles neither was able to hold back. It was all light. Easy. John wanted it to go on.

Once the quiet calm of the cabin settled in around them however, John took a yawning breath before he spoke around the heaviness bearing down on his heart. “Think about it a lot. The old days. We made it, Arthur, s’what sense is it to look back? What's it been, ten years now, almost—somethin’ like that, right? And we're still makin' it despite the fact that I never dreamed it was possible for folks like us.”

“Mm. Makin’ it. Bumps in the road, an’ all?” Arthur caught his gaze. John reached out to smooth a hand across his cheek. He appreciated the white that grew in patches through Arthur’s coarse whiskers now. Almost always kept a trim beard, even when the weather was warmer. Thought it kept ‘im hidden, when John figured it made him more handsome. Arthur didn’t want to hear about that.

“Bumps in the road and all,” John said, agreeing.

“Maybe you should start actin’ like it.”

Again, John was tongue-tied over how to reply. Arthur wasn’t wrong, neither. Silence folded into the spaces where they didn’t touch, a distance, for a little while. Resigned, John began to drift off every couple minutes until Arthur’s voice rumbled beside him.

“Gotta go take care of the horses. Water’s probably frozen over again.” Arthur was up and out of bed, buttoning up his flannels to his neck before John could even register the warm, vacant imprint he left in bed. Ghost-like.

John rocked forward to sit upright. Shivered as he exhaled the residual sleepiness from deep within his body. Shit, for all his jabs at Arthur’s age, _he_ felt like the older one some mornings. Far older than he was. Could never get used to this early-rising schedule, not even back when they worked daily on the ranch. His body simply wasn’t meant for it, and John was not ashamed to own up to that flaw. One of many.

“Just gimme a sec.”

While John was busy rubbing lazily at one eye, Arthur waved him off, sat in the chair by the bedroom door, shoving his thick-socked feet into tall boots, all ready to go. “Nah, won’t be too much longer if I do it myself. You get some more rest. Were tossin’ and turnin’ more than usual last night.”

“I keep you up, then?” John grimaced. Never felt right, after what Arthur went through during the dissolution of the gang, for John to speak of the nightmares he became cursed with. He’d always had them, although the type of torment John endured within those bad dreams was all that changed as he got older.

Arthur grunted, tying his hair back. He gave John an austere reply, “I’m all right. Mind was uh, goin’ too much to sleep through the night anyway, I reckon. All that moving you did sure kept me warm enough, though.” He forced a chuckle, and John knew it right there—Arthur’s dreams were just as tainted as his own anymore. The both of ‘em sure were God awful at talking about it even though it was plain as day in the shadow of exhaustion that veiled their faces each morning.

 _“You,”_ Arthur emphasised, “can go out and change the horse blankets and brush ‘em down before dinner, of course.” 

John flopped himself back against the pillows. Closed his eyes until he heard Arthur add, booming voice trailing through the cabin, “And feed ‘em tonight, too!”

“All right, all right! Hey, make sure to give Rachel—”

“I’ll feed your horse her goddamn sugarcubes! Don’t you worry, Mister van Winkle. Now get yourself some a’ that beauty sleep.”

John rolled onto his stomach and tugged the blankets up to his ears. Didn’t take him long to fall back off into a shallow sleep. He dozed, but his body itched to move despite the comfort their bed promised him. Through hissed curses and the chattering of his teeth, John climbed into the worn-soft flannel of his union suit and pulled on his socks and boots before stomping through the house. The main room was warmer from the low fire in the potbelly stove, yet far from feelin’ any kinda cosy, so John threw some logs in and put the kettle on once the fire was stoked high enough again.

Always made John smile when he got his and Arthur’s mugs out for coffee each morning. These little lopsided pieces of art, as Arthur would like to think of ‘em. John didn’t know how the cups survived this long with how clumsy both he and Arthur could be. Jack had made ‘em with Charles a few years ago. John’d been jealous at the time, watchin’ another man bond with his son yet again, when John felt like he had no skill on offer to teach the boy beyond paltry literacy and killin’. Now, John could better appreciate the swirling nonsense shapes; the bright, glazed whites and yellows painted over the earth tones of the fired clay were more beautiful to him, because though Jack may never have a future as a potter, he put love into what he made for Arthur and John. Maybe it was that love that helped protect these damned ugly things. Like a charm or somethin’. Survived fumbling hands and elbows, and that ain’t to mention heated arguments aplenty; neither cup fell victim to the floor nor wall like some other things had.

John filled the wobbly mugs with boiling water and spooned coffee grounds into each, stirring as he wondered if Arthur would be finished in the shedrow soon, if he really should've helped tend the horses. While he tried peering out one of the windows at the front of the house, John took his sleeve to the glass and wiped away foggy condensation that had hazied it up. The view didn’t look out towards the stable, of course. John was just feelin’... well, goddamn antsy for some reason. It aggravated him, frankly. Sure, he liked his rest and all, didn’t change the fact that any kind of manual labour, even the most menial of work that kept John’s hands busy and his mind distracted, was good enough for him these days. Damn it, he should’ve just gone an’ helped Arthur, despite what he had said.

From an old, battered peach can, John shook some crushed eggshell into the coffee, then grabbed his jacket and smokes and headed out the door.

On their small porch, it was a colder morning than John had anticipated. He shuffled his boot soles ‘cross the boards, lookin’ for invisible ice, and set the mugs on the rail in front of him when he found none. Past the curling steam of the coffee, John could see a family of deer picking their way through the remnant snow near a cluster of trees a little ways off. He thought about the hunting rifle Arthur talked ‘im into gettin’ Jack for Christmas and swore to himself.

_Kid's gotta learn how to shoot and hunt sometime. Might enjoy it._

Yeah… Only John wished sometime wasn't anytime soon. Filled him with remembered dread of 'is own youth. Was better that his son kept his nose stuck in the spine of a book for the time being, even if that left them with less things in common, and more things for Jack and Arthur to talk about. It was… safe.

Thankfully, John’s matchbox was out here on the arm of an old rocking chair, right where he'd left it last night. He fished into his pockets with already icy hands to pull out his cigarettes and gloves. As he lit a match, John could hear the rough sound of a lingering cough that made his heart clench no matter how much time passed in which Arthur remained along the path of good health. It was forever hard for John to take a doctor’s word when a doctor’s what told Arthur he weren’t going to make it in the first fuckin’ place. But he had to put trust in whatever repentance they were payin', that Arthur wouldn't be hit with the worst kinda punishment for a life they worked hard to leave buried in the past.

John picked up his coffee to help warm his hands and leaned his hip against the rail. Took a lenghty pull off his cigarette, then let out a heavy sigh that was carried on a soft plume of grey smoke. In a daze, John sipped coffee, staring at the tiny puddle of water collecting around the bottom of Arthur's mug, and the thin ring of melted frost where his own had been a minute ago. Imagined he could see the beads of water refreezing before his eyes, like the layers of ice forming and building along the banks of a river. Sometimes John felt like that: a thing that was meant to flow and move and rush, but now he was freezing in place, and it felt like a dam against his nature. The surge in him was always desiring to break through. It’s the whole reason Arthur came up with the idea of them building this small place of their own, practically in the middle of the woods. The gang’s nomadic life suited John, or maybe he learned to become suited to _it_ and hadn't known the difference. Whatever it was, John needed to be on the move every once in a while or he felt suffocated, strangled. There came times when Arthur and him would ride out and stay at Beecher’s, in a little shack smaller than this cabin here. Fit them more than all right; it’d been where they lived until this place was built, anyway. So John gathered this was Arthur’s way of gettin’ him to stay put with the illusion of something ephemeral—Dutch always liked that word, ephemeral. Used to apply it to their situation pretty frequently, or the ideas of modern society he thought ludicrous and inconsequential. John noticed his cigarette burnt down, mainly a cylinder of ash.

A muffled crunch of dry leaves underfoot gave Arthur away as he rounded the side of the cabin. The ash fell, and John tossed the remainder of his cigarette over the rail after taking one last puff. 

“Everything good?” he called out to Arthur.

“Good as gold.” It was their way of checkin’ in with one another without actually raising a fuss. “Ice in the trough weren’t too thick, but I’m thinkin’ we oughta dig a fresh hole for it before the weather turns an’ we ain’t ready—reckon the original one ain’t doin’ much for insulation anymore, what with the dirt packing back down around the tub. Should probably do it before Christmas. Ground ain’t too hard yet.”

John nodded, mostly listening. “Sure ain’t soft though, neither.”

“Maybe muck the stalls real good before we do it, spread manure down into hole, settle the tub on top of it. S’posed to help.”

“...Shit?” That caught John’s attention.

Arthur walked to the foot of the porch steps, crossed his arms and cocked his hip. “Yeah. _Shit.”_

“How the hell’s that supposed to help any better than plain dirt?”

The look on Arthur’s face suggested he wasn’t quite sure. He spread his arms and gave John a shrug. “I dunno, John. One of them goddamned hands you hired on last year suggested we do it with all the water buckets and troughs in the winter months. Young feller. Said his family did it back on their farm. Somethin’ about the… the heat from the composition or–or…”

John chuckled into his mug as he brought it to his mouth. “Composting, y’mean?”

“All right, Mister High and Mighty Rancher, since yer such an expert then, _you_ can handle the manure.”

“I’m an expert, damn right. Years of handling horseshit comin’ from you, it’s a wonder I ain’t sick of it—” John was promptly hit in the shoulder with a dirty, poorly formed snowball. Wet slush flung across his face, slid down the open buttons of his union suit. “God _damnit!”_ Coffee sloshed everywhere as John tried to wipe away the snow with one hand. “That was unnecessary, you ain’t a child.”

Arthur bent down to gather more snow where it had banked thickly against the front of the porch, packing it between his gloved palms. John’s temper rose even though his whole body started to shiver.

“You been too serious lately, and well… guess I’m bored.” Arthur began cocking his arm back.

“Don’t… you fuckin’ dare.”

Below the brim of his hat, Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Or what, you gonna come over here an’ whoop my ass, Marston?”

“Think I’m your match by now, ol’ man.” John weren’t no scrawny kid anymore. “Definitely a quicker draw. S’don’t test me.”

Arthur’s smile grew sharp. “Ohh, I’d say that’s a _challenge.”_

“C’mon, I’m serious.”

Another snow ball went flyin’ for John’s head, but he ducked behind the ballisters in time, nearly coating his front in coffee as more splashed about. John thought about his very limited options. He set his precious mug down safely, then quickly hopped the side of the porch rail, landing in a small mound of snow interspersed with the brown of dead oak leaves. Tryin’ to make decent ammo out of melting snow was proving fruitless, but John formed two snowballs he thought good enough and came running around to the front of the cabin, pelting the curl of Arthur’s hat with the bigger one. Since Arthur was distracted by the shower of snow falling from his brim, John took advantage, jogging behind Arthur to hit him square in the back of ‘is neck with the other snowball.

“Ah, shit!” Arthur staggered forward, smacking at the back of his collar. “See,” he laughed, “you can have fun, after all!”

“Fun? I ain’t even dressed for this nonsense!” John crossed his arms, pulling his jacket closed.

Arthur recovered and rolled his shoulders, shook his head like a dog. More bits of snow flew off his hat. “An’ whose fault’s that?” He lunged for more snow. John darted away, feeling his blood thrum. This was ridiculous. If Arthur was so ‘bored,’ he could go bag a deer or make a supply run.

“If you were smart—that’s an almighty big _if—_ you’d’ve come outside properly dressed in somethin’ other than yer underwear, John.” The next snowball hit John in the stomach before he could turn away. And that one sorta smarted. “So I’d say, that ain’t _my_ problem.”

 _“That was mostly dirt, you asshole!”_ John rubbed at the spot where the snowy dirt clod had left a dark blotch on his union suit.

“Relax, princess, I’ll run you a bath later. Order you up some a’ our fanciest _champagne,_ too. After I cook you a six course meal… and once yer all done with tending the horses tonight, I can fluff your pillows so you can have a nice place to lay your pretty head. Think the roof of the shedrow needs the leaves swept off it again, by the way—”

Without warning, John ran straight for Arthur and tackled him. It was like a dynamite blast when they hit the ground; snow, mud, curses, and Arthur’s hat went flyin’. John pulled the punch meant to land on Arthur’s arm—he was always mindful of the large scar on his left shoulder. Same couldn’t be said for Arthur, who packed a wallop in retaliation by hitting the side of John’s own scarred up, “unlucky” arm. He never did go easy on John.

They tossed and wrestled around some. Laughed too, if John was bein' especially honest. He ended up with more snow shoved down his union suit, and Arthur got some grit in his teeth when John smashed a snowball into his face, tryin’ to make ‘im eat it. Didn’t stop him from kissin’ Arthur a couple minutes later when he rolled on top of John and pinned him. Then that ended that.

Maybe they was both equally immature after all these years.

❦❦❦❦❦

John was fuckin’ freezing. Weren’t that bad in the cabin, he guessed, but the damp made it a hell of a lot worse. Never had the constitution for this winter weather. While Arthur trudged around, gatherin’ what furs and blankets they had, John peeled off his union suit in the main room. Each thing Arthur found got deposited on the rug at John’s feet ‘til there was a large, likely unneeded, pile in front of the stove.

“Any better?” Arthur asked once John was sat on the rug, swaddled in a thick, patchwork quilt—a much beloved gift from Tilly for their first proper year at Beecher’s, and to celebrate Arthur's good health to boot.

John plucked a fingernail on the threads that made up the ‘M’ of Arthur’s last name. Or maybe it was the one for his, he wasn’t sure. Too cold to think or move to check. _“Fuck._ Think I hate you.” The words were said with dulled barbs.

“‘Course you do.” Arthur stared down at him, lookin’ happy as a pig in shit. He hung John’s union suit over the back of a chair at their rough-hewn dining table. Courteous of ‘im. “Don’t look so glum, John. Laughin’ ‘cause yer genuinely happy won’t kill ya. That sad shit? When you been hoggin' a bottle? We ain’t havin’ that no more.”

“I just wanted to enjoy my goddamned coffee with you, thanks. Sure glad you thought that all was funny. Might need to borrow your good comb.” John ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as they caught on a couple knots. “Oughta make you brush out the grime.”

“Awh, you didn’t whine s’much about a little _grime_ when you kept that mop of yours longer. Seemed you was averse to washin’ it. I got…”—Arthur plucked something from the ends of his long hair; the tie he’d used was a casualty of their scuffle outside—“dead grass in mine, probably twice as many tangles. Don’t hear me bellyaching.” He nudged John in the side with his foot. “C’mon, what’s eatin’ at you so bad this morning, hm? Every little thing don’t normally make you quite so prickly.”

John's lip curled in a sneer. “You got me fired up, pullin’ that shit outside, is all. Weren’t prepared for it. And... I didn't sleep well.” Even to his own ears, that sounded petulant.

The floorboards creaked with a shift in Arthur’s weight. He shuffled closer and squatted directly in front of John. His voice was low and mischievous when he spoke next, like he was divulging a secret shared between childhood friends, “Who's to say I don't like seein' you all 'fired up?’”

“You comin' onto me, Mister Marston? Bit inappropriate, don’t you think?”

“An’ I ain’t got much care for what’s ‘appropriate,’ so I could be havin’ certain _unseemly_ designs, if yer askin' for it... Mister Morgan.” The velvet-smooth sound of Arthur's voice, coupled with the way he used his own surname for John caused a shiver to run through John’s body that was almost as bad as the cold set into his bones.

“I gotta say please?” Heart thudding in his chest, John leaned in closer ‘til his nose brushed Arthur’s.

“Only gentlemen say please.” Arthur pushed one suspender off his shoulder, but the cunning grin he’d been wearing disappeared, as did his act. “You uh, end up going back to sleep after I got up this mornin’?” he asked as the other suspender slipped down his arm.

John blinked rapidly, the question like a jolt of cold water flushed across his skin, and right after he thought he might be warmin’ up real good, too. “I— Not really. And if I had, it’s only ‘cause you goddamn told me to. Why?”

“Only askin’ because I was wonderin’...” Arthur scratched his thumb along the bristles of his chin, gaze cast towards the stove, the snarling glow behind the black teeth of the grate. “Well, wonderin’ if maybe you thought anymore about what I asked earlier. Know you got room in that brain for thinkin’, despite what I tease. Somethin’s been goin’ on with you for awhile.” He looked back to John, waiting for an answer, patience relaxing the set of his jaw.

John shifted back, bringing Arthur’s face out of a blurry focus and into something with clarity etched out of time, experience, love, and loss. Arthur always looked s’goddamn downtrodden when he was being serious. It broke John’s heart and other times frustrated him to high Hell. And here Arthur had the nerve to suggest _John_ was the one too serious out of ‘em.

“Don’t know what it is you want me to say, exactly. Want me t-to dredge up bad memories? Or talk about the times when it was great, when things were goin’ fine still? Before Dutch…” John clamped his mouth shut and turned away for a second. “That what you want from me? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, Arthur, it’s hard, most days, to see back beyond everything goin’ to utter waste.”

There was a moment that passed, gathering in a painful twist within John’s chest, forming with gravel and mud and something sticky-black like tar. It made him feel dirty and rotten, waiting out what he thought would be Arthur’s angry, hurt response. He was happier these days, sure. Happier than John, but the fuse of Arthur’s infamous temper had barely lengthened over time. John didn’t know the intricacies of feeling; Arthur on the other hand… Arthur probably felt too much.

“An’ why’s that? You can tell me anything now. We ain't gotta hide or bottle it up, keep quiet—ain't got the shadow of Dutch hangin' over our heads no more.”

“Don't we?”

Arthur’s eyes darted away again. “...Not everything went to waste…” He was all down in the mouth. 

_Hellfire._

“I'm sorry, Arthur… but shit like that always leads me to think of… nevermind it. What brought this on, anyway?” John tried again. Clearly, the subject was of some kinda importance considerin’ Arthur wouldn’t drop it, much as John would like ‘im to. He didn’t find it a very romantic conversation, not that romance was a specialty of John’s or anything. Far from it.

“Thought maybe it’d be nice if we would go an’ visit folks we lost, weather permitting, after spendin’ Christmas at Beecher’s Hope. A thank you, y'know… for sacrificing what they all did, seeing as how we’re living a life they didn't get to. Just me an' you, make a trip of it.”

“Those who left meetin’ up with those who stayed. Seems an awfully depressing way to spend a holiday vacation, if a vacation’s what yer after. That's what you really want, though... of course I'll go with you. You say when. Maybe with enough notice, I could even have Sadie come stay with Abigail and Jack. They’d love that, I’m sure. Plus, an extra pair of eyes to watch over the place since I reckon we'll be gone so long and all. Lord knows we can’t trust Uncle to be any sort of lookout for anyone but ‘imself. The guys are protective of Abigail and Jack as if they was part of our family, but… we been knowin’ Sadie longer, s’all I’m sayin’.”

In careful movements, Arthur brought his hand to John’s chest, slid it beneath where John had the edges of the quilt crossed over his sternum, trappin’ his own body heat. He passed his hand over John’s skin, firm and gentle both, a gesture echoing the man he was to John. 

“Been a… awfully long time since you an’ me rode out together aside from goin’ down to the ranch, or supply trips. Think it’d be… nice.” Arthur’s voice trailed off quietly. He pressed his lips together like he was afraid of what he was sayin’. Maybe afraid of what John would make of it. “Think it’d be real nice,” he said again, stronger this time. “Don’t gotta be sad.” Shoulders rounded, Arthur had his head hung low between them, so John was surprised when Arthur moved to sit next to him. They leaned together, one weight supporting another.

The new warmth John felt welling up inside settled his nerves down some. His tongue soon felt loose as his joints and limbs. “I love you, y'know?”

“I know it, John.” The faint twitch of a smile played along the line of Arthur's mouth. John could settle for that.

They had a veritable nest around them here in front of the heat of the stove, surrounded by a mishmash of patterns and soft textures. Had John gettin’ a bit sentimental for a reason he couldn’t pick out. When he was in the gang, he was happy so long as he had his own bedroll and didn’t have to share.

“Here,” he said, yanking the quilt from beneath Arthur. John opened his arm like a boldly coloured wing until Arthur got the message and let himself be half-cocooned, too.

Arthur didn’t stop there; his touch started gently again, the width of his palm travelling up and down John’s neck, over his throat. There was something within John, a wire-thin tension ready to break, that made him wanna beg for Arthur to get it over with and kiss him already. As if they’d never fuckin’ kissed thousands of times by now, as if Arthur had ever starved John. He was the most grateful for every single kiss that came after what was s’posed to be their last.

The heat of Arthur’s skin brushed away the last of the chill from John’s body. He closed his eyes, sighing, enjoying the sensation of simply being touched, in spite of his own impatience. Arthur ran his fingers along John’s chin, lightly pressed his thumb below his bottom lip. Tracing the line of a scar, John knew.

“I’ll always feel lucky you and Javier came lookin’ for me when you did, that I only came away with scars, ‘cause it meant I came away from that goddamn mountain and them wolves at all. Funny how it took you close to a damn decade to forgive me for going back for _you.”_ John pulled Arthur closer, fingers gripping into his sleeves; clutching a need. “I miss it all, I do. Good and bad. Miss the family we made outta all them troubled folks like us. I miss Hosea. Every goddamned day. Even… Even Dutch, wherever the hell he is. Out of all that, in the end… I'd have missed you more than anything, you bullheaded bastard.”

Beside him, Arthur grumbled self-consciously, then promptly tipped John’s chin up to kiss ‘im hard. Embarrassment was easier to ignore when John wanted Arthur so badly, which was good because any other time, he’d probably hide his face in shame for how he immediately groaned into Arthur’s mouth.

“I don’t wanna have to ask or say please.” John relied a bit on their act again, feeling directionless. His hand went to his lap, rubbing himself, dick already gettin’ hard over a fuckin’ kiss of all things. Guess it was really all what Arthur made ‘im feel, the sum of it, not just what was physical. 

Arthur pushed John down into the blankets, then pushed his tongue more forcefully against John’s, a slow roll John desperately wanted to mimic with his hips. Findin’ himself glad to be free of the restrictions of clothing already, John quickly helped Arthur out of his clothes. They only got so far as his shirt and the top of his underwear, the rest just got rolled down Arthur’s ass for now. Laid on their sides, they pressed together, John wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck, Arthur sinkin’ his teeth into the muscle of John’s shoulder while he hugged him to the mass of his body.

John knew he wouldn't last long, what with Arthur asking him closer with filthy, mumbled beckonings. He shifted to bring his hand up into John's hair, grabbing a fistful, hiked John’s leg up over his hip, rutted harder, rougher. John pressed his cheek against Arthur’s, dug his heel into Arthur’s ass. Probably moaned a little too loud into his ear when his balls started to tighten.

Livin’ in the middle of the forest, with not a damn soul around ‘em to hear or judge whatever the hell they decided to get up to, was somethin’ John would never tire of. They could fuck right here, next to the same table they had meals at, in front of the same potbelly stove John had boiled water for coffee this morning. Nobody would know, ‘cause this was all theirs, alone.

There was a burning heat, bright between them now as they moved together, as they kissed with not another masked regret or concealed apology uttered; what they communicated were only devotions said upon the breath they stole from one another.

The slickness against their bellies, with both of ‘em leaking, was good, but not quite enough to get John off completely. He moved back enough to shove Arthur’s hand down to his prick.

“You close?” John panted.

Arthur smiled and kissed him. “Almost. Not as much as you, I think.” He stroked John in a perfectly steady rhythm, tightening his grip at just the right moments. “C’mon, come for me.” Arthur leaned in, lightly knocking their foreheads together, to nip at John’s slack mouth. “‘Cause we’re alive, right? So show me how alive you are, John.”

John clawed into Arthur’s shoulders, kissed him ‘til his lips felt bruised. Murmured the crest of his release before painting both their chests. John let himself catch two breaths before rolling Arthur onto his back. The impediment of Arthur’s trousers had to go, so John impatiently tugged ‘em down, most of the way off. Having enough room, John settled in the bracket of Arthur’s knees. Sucked him off, taking a different kinda pleasure in how Arthur was pullin’ at his hair again, in the noisy breaths he huffed. A devious thought sparked in John’s mind, and he wiped two fingers through the mess on his chest, used that to massage at Arthur’s hole. Lazy motions contrasting with the more insistent way he made use of his mouth. An involuntary hum left John’s throat as Arthur bucked into his mouth.

The sharp, familiar taste of Arthur’s come and the sound of a strained moaned rising in volume from Arthur’s chest made John work his mouth and tongue faster, taking everything out of Arthur. The moment Arthur’s body trembled a bit too much and the grip he had on John’s hair loosened, John pulled off. He wiped his knuckles across the corners of his mouth, licked his lips, knowing the remnants of Arthur would linger there for a little while. His groin throbbed weakly, body ready to give out from a pleasant exhaustion. John slumped across Arthur, head pillowed comfortably on his stomach. He pet at the hair on Arthur’s thigh, up and down, drowsy in his movements even though it couldn’t even be eleven o’clock yet. The weight of one of Arthur’s hands rested in the space between John’s shoulder blades.

It hit John then, that if things went differently, if he'd listened to Arthur and left for Copperhead Landing immediately, he could be planning on visiting Arthur's grave amongst all the rest scattered across the land. Arthur might not have made it through if Charles hadn’t offered to take Arthur, sick and on the verge of dying, to Rains Fall, ignoring the fretting and panic John was consumed by over Arthur leaving his woefully unqualified supervision. John going back for Arthur could have all been for nothin’. 

He thought back to the many toasts over dinner to family memory, friends in the gang that came and went, and even maybe the assholes they'd like to forget permanently—Arthur's name could've been a part of that. The one thing that constantly gave John direction when he wandered off course, gone. The drunken songs around campfires while they recalled those good times had… Arthur’s spirit would have dwelled there too, situated somewhere in the middle of laughter and more sombre moments.

John crawled up to Arthur, fluffed up some blankets he could flop onto without hurtin’ himself. Lying back, John let a breathy laugh float away from him in effort to dissolve the heavier thickness of emotion threatening to stifle his lungs, to choke the tears he refused to ever shed in front of his partner. At Least he tried. John wiped a hand over his eyes, took a deep, slow breath through his nose before tryin' to speak.

“Who'd share this”—John would not let his voice break— _“with me,_ huh? If not you? Not Beecher’s Hope, that’s Abigail’s dream-come-true, I mean this place right here, this piece of home. Hell, who am I kiddin’? It likely wouldn't exist without you. Could hardly get the ranch built properly while you were on the mend.”

“You an’ Charles… and Uncle made out all right without me.” Arthur's rough hand cradled the side of John's face, forcing him to turn to Arthur with mild coaxing. “Well… maybe not Uncle and that whole debacle with the Skinners, but… you catch my meanin’.”

John smiled, tried to hold it true, not let it falter. “Fancied ‘imself the overseer while it was all Sadie what taught me about real ranching. Sure as shit learned a lot that year. Charles… teachin’ me ‘bout proper honesty, honest livin’; Abigail, some real goddamn patience.” He chuckled. “And you… lead me to what loyalty really looks like. What matters.”

“I'm right here. Ain’t gone yet.” Arthur leaned up and over John, the shield of his body hovering along John’s, anchoring him. “I don't regret—ain’t sorry that you came back, even if I have had a hard time believing I deserve it, even now. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'm back up there on that rock, and time goes backwards. I watch the sun set, and it don't ever come up again. Nobody comes back down the mountain for me. And in those kinda dreams, I think it's just what I was owed from a world I didn’t rightly appreciate.” Like a pendulum, Arthur’s thumb stroked back and forth 'cross the scarred breaks in the thick stubble of John's cheek.

“In mine I'm back on that mountain, too,” John choked out. He bit down on his lip. “Only you ain't there. Then I hear the wolves howl. In one of the worst ones, recent, too, they were–were growling, snapping at each other, just outta sight. Couldn’t see it, but I knew it. Like they were fighting over something. I'll never forget it, Christ. Wrote it down, soon as I woke. Thought it…” John laughed bitterly, a nervous, anxious dread boiling its way through his veins, like reliving something that wasn’t merely a horror carved out by the tools of his worst fears. His own imagination turned against ‘im. “Thought it was you—that you were gone and they took you. So that's where my mind goes, Arthur. When I think of the old days, lotta times, that's where it goes. More often than not. Wish it weren’t so, but there it is. Wish someone could fuckin’... burn it outta me.”

“John,” Arthur started. His voice was pitched lower, more hoarse. “Wasn’t my intention to burden you with that kinda weight on your mind. Guess I’m too used to mourning the me that was. Didn’t give much thought to what you might’a had to grieve, had things gone differently. All I wanted was for you to get gone and live. Been tryin’ real hard to be somebody new that I like—”

“I’m tryin’ the same fuckin’ thing, for years, ‘cause I don’t know how else to be—” The words rushed out of John’s mouth before he could stop ‘imself.

Arthur’s brows rose. _“—somebody new,”_ he continued, sounding barely irritated by John’s interruption, “that you’ll still wanna keep around, too. I think about how we lived before, fairly often, and… every year that passes, it don’t ever stop feelin’ like I stole somebody else’s life. That I’m playin’ pretend until the day comes when the world calls my bluff, sees me for what I really am. And it’s all taken away. We thought we lived good then, John, and look how it fell apart. I don’t wanna take any more days I’m given for granted, now that I got somethin’ really special. Now, if I’ve gotta spend hours sittin’ on a row boat ‘til my backside aches, tellin’ Jack he’s doin’ a fine job fishing when he ain’t caught nothin’ but bait, or play fetch with that damn dog, or have a stupid snowball fight with you to keep feelin’ alive… Hell, I’m gonna do it. ‘Cause now we got time, John. For something legitimately good. We left for a reason. We got all the time for livin’ because of it. Don’t want you forgettin’ how ‘cause you got yer boots planted too firmly in what was.”

“I’m forever doomed to follow your example, huh? I don’t know how the hell you do it, when you lived that way for longer than me. And for Christ’s sake, I fell for the man you were, and I love what you became. Sure, we’ve changed, but that ain’t been any different. Know I’ll… I’ll die lovin’ you.” John’s cheeks flushed. Reflexively, he scowled.

Tryin’ not to seem soft didn’t matter, because John let out a muffled noise of surprise, ambushed with a kiss as he was. Arthur’s large frame rested against John, and he settled himself between John’s thighs. Their hearts beat rapidly against the other’s enlivened rhythm. Arms going ‘round Arthur’s back, John broke their kiss long enough to spell his loyalties out once more.

“Don’t mean I’m ready to give up or anything. I like to think myself a fast learner, guess with this it’s gonna take a little more work. Ain’t done a lot of good things in my years, but I’ll always stick by believin’ one of them things was ignoring you tellin’ me to go without you.”

The lines in Arthur’s face softened a second too short before a crease formed in the middle of his lowered brow. “You never were a good listener,” he groused. “Better believe I’ll always stick by you, too. But you woulda been all right without me. Only reason I told you to go. I wanted you to make it, John. I know you. Yer a fighter when it matters. With the important things. Woulda made out just fine… you, Abigail, and Jack. Didn't need me.”

“Maybe.” John pushed a straw-golden strand of Arthur’s long hair behind his ear and enjoyed the sheepish smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth, along with the way he sort of ducked his head down a little like he always did whenever more romantic attentions were paid towards him by John. “Glad I have you, though. Otherwise, don’t believe I wouldn’t have enjoyed this life half as much. Would've been... damn near empty. Hollowed out.” Like some rotted old tree, just a shell of something that maybe used to stand tall, John thinks, but doesn't dare admit. Arthur brought a lot to his existence, sure added an abundance of life to it. Wasn't to say that his son didn't, but with Jack, well… John still felt unworthy on the best of days—unfit come the worst—all due to the tremendous amount of mistakes he’d made early on. Having Arthur by his side made everything feel more complete somehow. Finished the circle that contained everything he had fought to build, protect, and keep.

Arthur lay back down beside John, a contentment emanating off him that was damn contagious. “In a little while… we should make ourselves more presentable,” he said. “Can ride out to Blackwater and I’ll pay for that hot bath a’ yours.”

 _“You’ll pay,_ huh? Funny when, the money’s both of ours.”

“Just pretend I’m treatin’ you, would ya? Can’t keep any promises about no champagne, though. We got a wealth of whiskey here, so I say we smuggle a bottle or two in… on account of us havin’ to tighten our purse strings with Christmas and all.”

“Sure.” John smirked and propped himself up on his elbow to better watch Arthur speak his scheme.

“Whiskey we got’s probably better than what them bastards have on offer at the saloon, anyway.”

“Can you smuggle yerself into the washroom, too?” John cocked his head. “We could share, on account of me wantin’ you close.”

Arthur shoved John over, but looked at him with nothin’ but affection. “M’sure I can figure something out.” He scooted close to John again, folded his hands on his chest. “For old time’s sake.”

John agreed, whispering, “Good. For old time’s sake,” against Arthur’s temple.

**Author's Note:**

> ::crosses fingers I didn't miss any glaring errors::
> 
> *John puts crumbled eggshells in the coffee to keep the grounds from being stirred up, and because it also helps with the bitterness/acidity, since the material makeup of eggshell is fairly alkaline. Noting this so no one thought that was something bizarre I added for shits & giggles or anything lol.
> 
> I can’t wait to check out everyone’s lovely creations! And thank you to the mods for putting together another killer Morston event for us :)
> 
> Dawaj!! Szczęśliwego nowego roku! Happy New Year! Buon anno! Please, everyone stay safe this New Year, wherever you are in the world, and be excellent to each other, and to yourselves, you legends, you♡
> 
> If you’d like, you can follow me on ye olde tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky and/or @oh_amatus on Twatter, where you can watch me complain about my writing & art woes, and witness how overly opinionated I am, because I suppose that's what that stupid bird app is for.


End file.
